


Miracle Throw

by Missy



Category: Laverne & Shirley (TV)
Genre: Bathtub Sex, Bubble Bath, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, Married Couple, Procreative Sex, Romance, Summer, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:48:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24137635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: The final step in the creation of the third DeFazio-Kosnowski kid, and all that that entails.
Relationships: Laverne DeFazio/Lenny Kosnowski
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Miracle Throw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Futsin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Futsin/gifts).



> Part of the Parenthood-verse; follows "L For Effort," this time directly.

It’s the middle of August before they can eke out any more alone time. A scorcher of a day. Every window’s open. Every fan in the house is on. They give the kids cool baths before packing their swim clothes up and sending them out the door with Edna and Frank, to Skolneck, where they will get to play with other kids and hopefully cool off. 

Laverne cleans the tubs and draws a fresh bath, and Lenny’s there with a couple of beers and some bubble bath they bought at the corner store. They sink in up to their necks, and Laverne leans back into his long arms, against his strong trunk.

It’s been a month since they’ve really tried to work on kid number three, and in desperation they’ve milled everyone they know for advice. They’d begun with their married friends – even Rosie and Ogden, both of whom they enjoy strenuously avoiding. 

The only useful advice came from the only actual virgin they both still knew – Shirley. She had an old marriage manual which apparently served as the basis for her sexual knowledge (Laverne wondered if she’d hid it under her mattress, a dirty little secret like her scanty panties). “The book,” Shirley informed Laverne, embarrassed, “says he should…reserve his releases for a few weeks.” Then she’d shoved the book at Laverne with pink cheeks. Laverne had borrowed it for a week – and took note of a few of the positions it suggested.

It was better than Squiggy’s advice, which had involved electrical shocks. She was surprised that Lenny couldn’t lift the sofa with his dick by now, but they’d obeyed the three week edict.

“Bubble gum?” Lenny asks her, sniffing the air, his fingertips drawing trails of bubbles along in his wake.

She pokes his kneecap. “What’s wrong with bubblegum? It’s good enough for the kids!”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna go to work smelling like a candy store Monday!”

“Better than going to work smelling like other things,” she says. He blows a raspberry at her and she smugly squirms against him, feeling him grow harder against the small of her back. Laverne is used – though not immune to – her husband’s erections. They’ve been pressed against her belly – eager and desperate during impassioned kisses, or poked her hip during slow dances. Nine years ago, they used to annoy her and make her feel like an object. Now they’re exciting, promising – memory-stirring. But Lenny’s not making an aggressive move today. She used to be surprised whenever he’d come to her soft and vulnerable, but that was him – the real him, the man she’d married so long ago.

He is, as always, warmly comfortable but exciting in ways she can’t describe. Once upon a time, Lenny told her with frantic eagerness that he wanted to be a “millionaire with muscles,” but she wouldn’t undo who he is and what his body feels like in her arms for anything. 

Lenny makes a low-voiced and clearly interested grumbling sound, and her movements just seem to arouse him all the more. “You know it’s been too long,” he whines into her ear, which just makes her wiggle more. Yeah, she wants him, but she’s going to make him wait a little. 

“You said you wanted to cool down,” she replies innocently. She can’t see his face from this position but she knows he’s rolling his eyes – at least partially from the teasing circles she’s making against him. This is how she moves when she’s on top of him, and she knows exactly how to make him remember what that feels like.

“Yeah, cool down, not cream before I get it in you,” he says.

She snorts, and then picks her beer up from the bathroom floor. She takes a pull, and then offers him a sip. He drains half the bottle as she holds it, and a tiny stream bubbles from his lips before he stops drinking. Laverne takes the excuse to lick his chest, his long neck, tasting beer and his salty skin. There’s another growl from Lenny, and she deliberately kisses the spot on the left side of his neck where it joins his collarbone.

She pulls back to look at him and his cheeks are rosy –not from the chilly bathwater, she knows, his beautiful eyes half-open and watching her with the focused intensity they haven’t lost in all of these years.

“Don’t watch me like that,” he says, and crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue at her. She cracks up automatically.

“What?” she asks, turning sideways in his arms, her old toughness, her daring nature, probably showing up in her expression.

“Like you’re gonna tease me to death,” Lenny replies. “I can’t take it today. I’ll come all over you instead of in you, and I didn’t wait three weeks to not stick it where it belongs.”

“Oh? It belongs in there?” she asks, sliding her right hand down his chest and off of his body. She touches herself – her softer-than-they-were-at-twenty-five breasts, her rounded belly, then between her legs. She’s a little wet already, and not from the bath.

He watches and moans. “Tease,” he repeats. 

“Watch it,” she growls – ‘tease’ is just a little less offensive than ‘bimbo’, bad enough in its own respect – but her tone just makes him laugh. He takes the beer from her grip and returns it to the floor.

“It’s always belonged to you,” he says, which is true and a little frightening. She knows what kind of power she’s always had over him, and it’s an awesome responsibility, to be that loved just for being herself, a plain girl with an overbite he’s known since the first grade. But Lenny never sees that when he looks at her.

“Well,” she says, her fingertips skating down his chest, “if it’s always belonged to me, then this belongs to you.” She takes his palm – still a little wet and chilly from the beer - and slides it down her body – under the water, from her heart, down her torso, to her sex. It’s an incredibly corny gesture, and at least a little untrue considering how long it took for her to let go of her preconceived notions about him, but he does kind of have her number by now.

“And Squig said you weren’t sentimental,” he teases. His fingers flower out over her sex, holding her still, and Laverne leans back into him. She lets herself go, as he uses the slippery, sweet-smelling water as an excuse to touch her skin. 

“Why’re you talking to Squig about my…” An indefinable growling sound is pressed from her lungs by his gentle fingers. Lenny doesn’t linger upon her breast, or between her legs – he measures her thighs, her arms, her flanks. They make out and she finds his soft, silky hair, presses the back of his head down toward her. She holds him very still and squirms around so she can face him.

“Do you wanna touch me?” she asks. Trying to decide between teasing him to make it last longer and letting him do whatever he wanted with her, because she trusts him and because he’s creative as hell sometimes.

There is a snort from her husband. “Do I want ice cream on my tuna fish, she asks,” Lenny says, and runs his palm down her back to squeeze her bottom. A better reply arrives – he kisses her, deep and firm. His hands instantly turn more earnest, and her hands grow more serious under the bubbles. He’s stiff enough against her belly to make her wonder if he really will go off should she touch him. Cautiously, she does little more than skirt her fingers along the heft of him.

Lenny’s the one who breaks the kiss. “Stand up,” he asks suddenly.

“Huh?”

“Up,” he says. 

Laverne’s not sure she can do that without crashing to the floor and breaking something. But his hands are helpful, holding her still, and then he’s kissing his way upward, from her knees to her thighs, and she knows what he’s going to do and has to brace herself against the tile wall behind the tub as his tongue emerges and he leans forward and nuzzles his way between her labia, then starts licking. 

She can’t do anything but moan and try to hold on to the back of his head as the familiar feeling of his kisses begin to pull her under. He’s in explorer mode, with one of his big hands snaking up to cup her breasts. There’s the wet, smacking sounds of him eating her out – familiar, and spreading tingles and waves of heat up her spine – fill the room. She mumbles his name, feeling the need for him to be closer to her – wanting the prickly-teasy climb to pleasure, but wanting his body – his cock – too.

“Do I taste like bubblegum?” she gasps out after a few minutes of agonizing pleasure.

“Nah,” he says, emerging briefly. “Kinda soapy.” 

“Do you want me to rinse…oh!” he’s pressed his way back and begun to circle her clit, robbing her of the ability to think, let alone speak. He surges up, burrowing more firmly between her legs, and the other hand holding her bottom slides down her tailbone, between her cheeks. His middle finger crooks before entering her. He knows what to do for her, how to ease her up, when she needs two fingers instead of one, three fingers instead of two. 

She’s dripping down his wrist by the time he laps against her clit, and then sucks her into his mouth. All it takes is a little humming and the agony of waiting becomes a strong wave of pleasure. She lists against the wall and feels her nerves fire, joy filling her up and blunting her mind.

Laverne’s groans turn into a shout, and her nails score down his scalp and clutch the base of Lenny’s neck. She jerks involuntarily in his grip and holds on to him, laughing at the warm, intense spasms that overtake her and dump her back on the shores of reality giddy and weak-kneed. 

She realizes suddenly that she’s smothering him with her sex and manages to scoot back, helping Lenny up to his feet. 

His eyes peer down at her, his lips shiny and his grin filthy with promise. He licks his lips and stares, all steam heat. “You taste better than bubblegum.”

Laverne grins back, slides her palms up the long, flat distance of his chest to loop around his neck. He bends automatically into the ensuing kiss, and she’s greeted by the familiar taste of herself in his mouth. Tongues tangling, Laverne slides her right hand back down, reaches down for his dick and strokes him, soapy, pulsing slightly in her hand, until his hips begin to saw in matching rhythm to her fingers. Laverne knows when to stop, to let go and back off.

When Lenny breaks the kiss, his eyes are dreamy. “Wanna get somewhere safer?” he asks, and wiggles his eyebrows at her.

She’s good enough to be patient – drying her off is a ritualistic action for him, and tender in its own way. She takes a turn with their towels, ghosting over his legs and back and belly and under his arms – feeling him up, but letting him know how much he’s loved. They’re kissing again before they’re out of the bathroom.

Laverne’s the one who breaks first, pins him against the wall in the hallway and throws her legs around his waist, sucking on his neck and biting down on his flesh as she wraps her arms around his neck. That he catches her is a miracle in of itself, but catch her he does.

“Missus Renaldi is gonna kill us,” Lenny says between kisses, but he’s laughing, breathless, still trying to figure out how to fit himself inside of her in this position. 

“Let her!” Laverne gasps out. Mrs. Renaldi is their nextdoor neighbor and a Catholic school teacher, a nice woman for whom they try to be quiet but who still tapes notes to their front door suggesting that the pounding sounds that occur between eleven and twelve at night against the adjoining walls of their bedrooms might do with a bit of muffling. If they were just living together she’d probably be shoving church pamphlets under the door, but she’s good to the kids, so they don’t complain.

Lenny reaches down to position himself, groaning low in his throat as he teases through her pubic hair and tries to realign himself. Laverne – clinging to him with her calves – manages to hold on. In a minute he’s sliding into her, smooth and hot, and his hands are on her ass, trying to drive upward and into her, his tongue braced between his teeth, a look of concentration on his face.

Laverne’s strong and athletic – she can hold him up with her legs, with her hands, with her strong arms. She once carried him fireman-style through a Christmas sale when it got too rowdy down at Gimbels. She knows how to get him balls-deep into her body without falling off or breaking her back or much more sensitive parts of his body. She uses his body, his shoulders, his hands, and lets the hungry, ravenous sounds pouring from her lips say it all.

Suddenly he shivers. “Not out here,” Lenny grumbles, almost to himself, and suddenly she’s getting walked across the room, with him jouncing into and out of her as he heads to their bedroom. The door’s kicked open and he places her on her back on the bed, which requires him to pull out. She makes a guttural sound of disappointment as he stands over her, panting, just taking her body in with his eyes.

Laverne sprawls herself out for a minute, then lifts up a leg, tracing her polished tootsies up his flanks, tickling him. He laughs and writhes, the pantherlike hunger in him dimming slightly under the grace of his good humor. It’s sexy, but then Lenny’s always sexy when he doesn’t mean to be – when he plays guitar, when he drives a car, when he laughs when he’s playing with the kids. A thousand words fly through her head, but she says what her heart knows.

“Love me.”

His blue eyes turn solemn as he bends over her once more, and they’re once again the two motherless kids from Knapp Street, looking for someone to love them without condition. It’s easy enough to pull him down over her body, bearing a bit of his weight. They have to squirm around to settle things up – a rolling entanglement of limbs and sweaty kisses dotted over writhing flesh. She ends up on top of him and slips him inside but only manages a few jerky strokes she’s being rolled over onto her side. They play-wrestle for dominance, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Somehow, he ends up on top of her, and she pulls him downward and into her body, her embrace. She intertwines her fingers with his against the pillow, and he grabs her other hand, lightly pinning her down and using her grip for leverage. 

The climb is a long, slow one. She was amazed by his patience at this point – part of her had expected him to take her quickly and roughly because of the long, desperate wait he’d endured in the hope of giving them the baby they both wanted. But that wouldn’t be what sex with Lenny tended to entail. She remembers the first time they made love, when he treated her like a fragile thing ready to break at the least provocation. They’ve learned a lot about each other and sex itself since that day. Now, there’s hunger in his touch, but also reverence. 

She swings her hips back into his movements, mumbles words of promise and praise and lets go of his hand to tangle her fingers up in his hair. She remembers when she was afraid to slip her fingers through it. Now she holds on for dear life and pulls until his jaw drops, his teeth latch onto her shoulder and his hands slide from her grip to grab her by the bottom and pull her up into the eager plunges of his hips. Her free hand finds his ass and squeezes appreciatively while the other remains tangled in his hair.

Their mouths catch the shouts and pleas and demands. He reaches the point where he’s barely withdrawing from her, actually pounding against her, trying to thrust deeper even when he’s as far inside of her as he can reach. He makes an animal sound and pulls away from her kiss, grabbing at the edge of the mattress. 

He babbles her name, staring through her, and she reaches down to touch herself but his head is already falling back, his eyes rolling. She lies back to watch him come, watch his expression change, feel his hips move lightning-fast and hear that little gasp that turns into a loud groan, to the chanting of her name.

Then there’s a quick spreading of heat through her body, and he melts down into her, flesh kissing flesh, his open mouth against the side of her neck. She bears his weight and holds him tight, with her legs and her arms. He seems to come for ages, his hips rocking and his cheeks flushing, his vocalization turning more and more guttural.

Lenny’s hand is between them before she can say a thing, and the orgasm that results takes her far from herself, squeezing down around him until he gasps and pulls out, too sensitive to bear it.

When she comes back, when she can feel the weight of him, the cadence of his breathing in her ear, his calloused palm gently running over her breast, the beat of his heart. Laverne sighs, just to even out her breathing.

His eyes are a little teary when he raises his head and they kiss again. She kisses those little marks of moisture away. He hands her a pillow and she props her hips up and he takes possession of the left side of the bed.

“Mmm,” she remarks.

“Good?”

“Always good,” she says, and her arm rests across his chest. Even when they’re not perfect, they’re good. Then she tries to peek over his shoulder at the alarm clock. “What times’ it?”

“Uh…” boneless, he flops in the direction of the clock. “Like…four two and a fourth?”

“Len…”

“I can barely tell time when I _don’t_ feel like my brain just got sucked out my dick!"

It feels that way for her, too. She feels slicker, stickier than she normally does when they go bareback – evidence, she supposes, that the waiting worked. She moves, and drips, and realizes they’re going to have to change the pillowcases with the sheets before her Pop comes home because Lenny has more than overflowed her bounds. “Please try…”

He’s almost face-to-face with it. “Two o’clock.”

She relaxes. “Good. Got ‘til six. We can wait out the fifteen and clean up before Pop gets back with the kids with plenty of time after.”

“Sounds good,” he grumbles, turning protectively toward her. The snuggling turned to chaste kisses, and the kisses to necking, and suddenly she is being poked in the hip by a solid hard-on.

“Len!” Sometimes she can’t believe he’s real.

“We have time, you said!”

“But…”

“I ain’t had any for a month,” he reminds her, putting on a ridiculous cockney accent. “Doncha got no bread for a starving man?” 

She wants to tell him he’s being a baby, but she’s starving for him, too. “Don’t be too rough,” she teases, stroking his chest. “Don’t wanna make Missus Renaldi mad.”

Lenny falls upon her like a starving man. 

If Missus Renaldi is home, Laverne decides, she’ll just have to pray another novena for them.


End file.
